Can't do that in the Middle East

Last night, My Man went on a date with a theme of "We can't do this in S.A." It was my first time in Denver since we got back. We walked 16th Street with our arms snaked around each other's waists. We bought Tex-Mex and licked the guacamole from our fingers. We drank wine in the Mercury Cafe, toasting legal alcohol. Piano music shook the ceiling over our heads. Beneath the strung lights, everything glowed: the wine glasses, the zebras painted on our table, my husband's face.

The plan was to enjoy "Open Mic Poetry Night." I've never been to one before, even though I majored in poetry.

The first guy up stood on stage. He donned white sneakers with enormous tongues protruding from beneath black pants. His black shirt was buttoned crooked. He introduced himself and solemnly put on a pair of sunglasses before announcing he would not be doing poetry, but stand-up comedy.

"The only thing as awkward as being on stage is being in the audience!" he exclaimed. (He never said anything; he exclaimed everything.) "Cuz it's awkward, right!? So awkward. You're thinking, man, this is awkward!

He was amusing in a way he totally didn't intend.

Other amusing acts:

--The guy with half a head of slicked-back hair, who stood up and yelled:

"Rock the mic! Rock the mic! I don't f*#@ around, and I don't waste your time!"

He then proceeded to waste our time with some terrible poetry (I don't even remember the topic--it was that bad), punctuated with comments like, "This ain't no Starbucks, motherf*#@ers."

--The girl who leaned into the mic, closed her eyes, and moaned a whole lot of things I never wanted to know about her boyfriend.

--The skinny guy with dreadlocks to his waist that gave a 1940's-radio-broadcast-style poem about the death of America. Coroner's report: too much greed, oil and corruption clogging the arteries. This guy definitely got the most applause from me.